The Chronicles of Rolen Damascus

The Chronicles of Rolen Damascus

Status: Finished

Genre: Fantasy



Status: Finished

Genre: Fantasy



Who is Rolen Damascus? That is what people have been asking for years now. With the help of an individual who has asked to remain anonymous, this old Inquisitors tale can now be told. Much like the other Inquisitors of his time, this man had set out to rid the world from the creatures of the void, to save all of humanity. And now that his lost journals have been found, you can see the world through his eyes, stand next to him while he does battle with the most fearsome creatures anyone has ever seen, tests his mettle against the people who struggled to ruin his name, and relive the most famous moments of the most legendary Inquisitor that ever lived. Thank you to the anonymous founder of these historical journals, whom ever you are.
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Who is Rolen Damascus? That is what people have been asking for years now. With the help of an individual who has asked to remain anonymous, this old Inquisitors tale can now be told. Much like the other Inquisitors of his time, this man had set out to rid the world from the creatures of the void, to save all of humanity. And now that his lost journals have been found, you can see the world through his eyes, stand next to him while he does battle with the most fearsome creatures anyone has ever seen, tests his mettle against the people who struggled to ruin his name, and relive the most famous moments of the most legendary Inquisitor that ever lived. Thank you to the anonymous founder of these historical journals, whom ever you are.

Chapter1 (v.1) - The Chronicles of Rolen Damascus

Author Chapter Note

I will post one chapter at a time and add more depending on reviews and/or editing do to reviews.
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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 04, 2017

Reads: 100

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 04, 2017




My day started out normal per se.

Just like any other, I’m engulfed in darkness and yet again I’ve been injured, edging ever so close to death. I can feel a warm liquid trickling down my neck from my hair line, and can only assume it’s my blood. As I wake up a little more, I recognize a pain pulsing in the back of my head, and a strong metallic fragrance buried deep in my sinuses.

Is it déjà vu?

Sort of… I’d been knocked out again.

Hindsight’s always been a bitch, but it’s also a good mentor. It’s just taking me a while to learn its lessons. The more particular lesson I’m referring to could have prevented this whole mess, but they didn’t allow his kind in the bar. He’s my canine body guard, and apparently I need to have him around more often to watch my back. If he’d been around, none of this would’ve happened.

I shake the vertigo out of my head and try to remember how I’d gotten myself into this predicament. I fight through the hangover until my memory juices start flowing again. Once they are, small splinters from last night start to come back to me.

I recall leaving Wild Wheelies saloon sometime after midnight like I do every night. I remember that it had been raining all day and I had just lit a cigarette for the journey home. I was drunk, I will admit it, but I hadn’t started a fight at the bar this time so there was no reason for anyone to want to clobber me flat. But then there it was, that old familiar explosion of pain caused from some cowards club or bat or crowbar, and then the flash of unholy blackness that ended in sweet sweet dreams.

Now I sit here with a thick, itchy blind fold on trying to catch a whiff of whatever it is that might be trying to eat me. My hands are bound and I can smell the distinct odor of freshly made sausage being prepared somewhere nearby. The meaty scent isn’t alone though, it’s coupled with the faint, spicy hint of pumpkin pie, and the thick musk of a man’s cheap cologne.

Don’t get it twisted though, in all reality this is a good thing. You see, I can sit here relieved now because I know I can rule out all those damned beasties from the rift. They’ve never smelled this nice, nor did they allow anyone to live this long. They’re some binge eating shit maggots that devour their prey immediately. They sure as hell don’t tie anyone to a chair to be snacked on later. This is definitely the work of an intelligent creature, but then that’s not saying much when compared to one of them extra dimensional son’s a bitches. Whomever it is that’s managed to capture me is probably dumber than a box of rocks, but I can guarantee they’re still twice as smart as a Void Walker.

Void Walker, you ask?

You know what I’m talking about. Those creatures you keep hearing about on the news. The ones you probably blow off as paranoia or hoaxes. In the back of your mind, you know they exist, but you probably deny it because you simply can’t fathom something so horrific and terrifying wreaking havoc in your prefect, sheltered little world. You could be staring one directly into its blood crazed eyes and still think to yourself, “There has to be a logical explanation for this.” Instead, you’ll blame their gruesome murders on us Inquisitors because we’re human, tangible things you can see and wrap your head around, people who also frighten you because they can do unexplainable things, and in your eyes, need to be eradicated for it. It’s easier that way, I’m sure. But I’m here to assure you, they are indeed real, just read an Inquisitors autobiography. They’re not fantasy stories, they’re true accounts. Sure some are a little more exaggerated than others, but they’ll give you the jest.

Void Walkers are animals, instinct driven and hungry, their tiny little brains constantly batting around the three simple goals that drive their actions; eat, reproduce, and survive, each breed with their own distinct aroma that only Inquisitor’s like myself have the curse, or should I say ability, to smell.


I sit here on what feels like a wooden chair that’s been coated in some type of smooth acrylic lacquer, noticing it wobble ever so slightly when I wriggle around. I’m a thinner sized fellow, but the screws and adhesive holding this piece of furniture together creak like I’m a moose that had just eaten an elephant.

Seems like it’ll hold for a little while longer.

I’m not going to panic at my situation because I know the Calvary is on its way, all I have to do is hold out for just a little while longer.

You can’t tell it because I’m writing in a journal, but it’s been a while longer and still I wait… what’s taking him so long?

I’ve been awake for at least an hour now and it’s been dead silent the whole time. Then it hits me. I really don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, but this would be the perfect time to catch up on some well-deserved sleep. You see, I don’t get much sleep back at my place and a nap would be a perfect way to turn lemons into lemonade. I mean shit; I’m already blinded by this scratchy cloth over my eyes and can’t see anything but blackness, so why not take advantage of the opportunity?

It’s a lovely thought, but every time I close my eyes, my mind manifests an image of Bigfoot bending me over this chair and having his way with me. I don’t know who’s holding me hostage, for all I know it might be Bigfoot. I have to find out. Then I need to get back home.

Sadly, I’ve been abducted more than I’d like to admit, but the outcome will remain the same. Hell, after nine ears of this garbage, it’s no wonder escape has become my forte. Luckily, you can learn from my experiences if you so choose to, for I have lived through a lot of these abductions and have been able to narrow the process down to just three important, sure fire techniques that’ll get you free. You could probably care less what these techniques are because you probably don’t see yourself ever getting into a mess like this. That’s all fine and dandy, but what happens if you do? Will you just sit there and die? This shit happens more than you’d think, and everyone that’s ever been found in six separate pieces, probably thought it wouldn’t happen to them either.

There’s no need for me to sugar coat this game plan, so I’ll just be blunt.

First, you should find a weakness in your enemy’s armor. It can be tick or an emotional issue, something you can exploit to your own benefit, something you can use to gain the upper hand, to seize the moment from them and put yourself in control. Second, find a weakness in your enemy’s bindings. This one is self-explanatory, but if you’re too dense to understand it, do humanity a favor and just sit back, close your eyes, and let your capture get on with his work, he apparently chose you for a good reason. The third step in this plan, well, this one is quite simple. All you have to do is take advantage of the first two techniques at your earliest opportunity, and Wala, free bird.

Now, this formula may seem like an oxymoron because it doesn’t work very well if you’re a sentimentalist and give a fuck about your life. The reason I say that is because the smallest slip up or unforeseen problem might just put an end to your struggle. You have to be in it to win it if you choose my route; otherwise, it’s the saw blade for you.

As for me, I could give two penguin dicks if I live or not, but don’t tell Jason that, he’d pitch a fit. I mean, I really don’t have much to live for, so death to me is always an option. Then again, I am reminded every day of my special obligation. You see, I have a debt I’d promised to pay back and I try really hard not to break my promises. With all this nobility crap on my plate, I’m sure you can see now why I can’t afford the luxury of a nap, much less a dirt one. Bigfoot must be my subconscious telling me I have work to do.

So with all that being said, I don’t mind the thought of spending eternity in a box, I just don’t like sitting around here in the dark. I find it strange that my whole life revolves around finding and killing things that take refuge in the shadows, but when it comes to being completely blinded, I just can’t keep my head on straight.

I control my oxygen intake and try my damndest to remain calm, continuing to wait for my partner… who’s apparently taking his sweet ass time.

Finally, after a few more hours of sitting here on this hard chair, which has started to feel like pins and needles puncturing my ass, I hear footsteps clumping on a hardwood floor. They seem to be getting closer but they’re muffled by a barrier of some sort to my right. The clap between this person’s heel and toe is long, telling me they have big feet, and more than likely belong to a man. His steps are also heavy which gives away his weight, and his long stride is more than enough for me to pin point his height. Then, a door knob across the room turns and I can hear the faint squeak of hinges as the door opens.

At this point, my captures tall, skinny ass finally makes his presence known. His fragrance assaults my nostrils like a swarm of wasps just flew up there and started stinging me unmercifully. It hits me as soon as he walks in and overwhelms my heightened senses. I can only assume this asshole doesn’t know anything about moderation, and is more than likely living the single life here in what I assume is his momma’s basement.

“I see you’re awake already,” the man says. His voice sounds polite and his words are soothing, or maybe I’m just happy to finally get this dance started and a hobo’s wet, liquor laced fart would sound just as appealing.

My voice comes out as a guttural murmur instead of its typical, smoker’s grit. “You going to kill me or what,” I ask him. I think I may still be a little dehydrated from last night. My voice echoes back into my ears and hits me like I’d just played a sour note on a trumpet, but I push through. “If not, I’d like to get home and take a shower,” I tell him, tilting an ear in his direction to wait for a reply… or a punch.

“In time, Inquisitor Damascus,” he answers. “If I may be formal?”

The fact that this putts knows my name catches me off guard. I have no beef with anyone as far as I know, so why would this doofus go out of his way to know who I am? “No dipshit,” I snap back, “you may not be formal.” I want to mock him as thoroughly as I can but this migraine is dulling my wit.

I guess he expected me to answer the way I had, and continues his blabbing. “Right now I need you to help me get in contact with Lieutenant Jason Abilene from the forty-first precinct.” I can almost hear a smile shaping his words. The douche is way too pleased hearing his own voice and the arrogance makes me lose any respect I may have had for him.

I start moving my lips around to mimic each word as he says it. Usually this game ends with a beefy fist upside my head, but it’s always worth it, if only for a good personal chuckle. Besides, who’d actually sit here and listen to this hoity-toity fuck?

He managed to knock me out and keep me held hostage, so kudos to him. But he obviously has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

“You want me to call him up,” I ask him, hoping he was stupid enough to untie my wrists and hand me his phone.

Don’t laugh; it’s happened a few times before.

I only need a little more time before my partner arrives, and if dicking with this fool buys me some, then I’ll play the game. Besides, I don’t know why he needs the Lieutenant, and I’m definitely not going to drag someone else into this mess. I know whatever this mysterious voice has in store for him can’t be good, and I won’t just throw him into the wood chipper like that, even if we do have our differences.

“No,” he snaps as if I’d offended him. “That would be too easy. Now shut up and listen.” His words slow to a crawl and start to sound more deliberate. “I’m going to need your body here in a little while and I’d like you to be alive when I take it.”

Needs my body, eh? Wants me to be alive when he takes it? Sounds an awful lot like someone’s spent a little too much time in the backwoods.

I find it somewhat strange that my childish lip synching isn’t bothering him. It’s almost always provoked a hefty attitude adjustment in the past. This guy must have some serious self-control. I don’t think about it too long as this ass hole seems to be giving me way too many innuendos, and I’m not up for playing ass darts with some creepy hill Billy. I make my stance on the matter as clear as possible.

“Hell no!”

“Let me finish Mr. Damascus,” he gripes. My answer must’ve sent him into a minor rage because his speech quickens, becoming more spiteful and sinister. “I’m going to remove your eye lids first so you can watch me flay you. Then I’m going to camouflage myself like a chameleon in your meat suit so I can get close to him.”

I hear this clown take a couple steps to my right and I struggle to get an arm free to punch him.

Damn, he tied these knots tight. They’re starting to chaff my wrists.

Fucking twine.

“Then, when I’m close enough,” he continues his rant, and by the sound of his set-up, I know he’s about to give me the skinny, “I’ll kill him too, and then I’ll use his body to accomplish a few of my other goals.”

My mouth has been hanging open through his whole spiel, and now I can taste the bitterness of his cologne touching my tongue. I have no clue what this guy’s rambling on about, but he sounds insane and needs to be put down. I snap my mouth shut just as he takes a couple steps to my left. I swear I can feel his eyes studying my body. They’re groping me without consent. Then he puts his soft hands on my face. They feel as smooth as a ripened peach and it leads me to believe he might be a paper pusher somewhere, perhaps that illegal biotech lab the lieutenant shut down several weeks ago.

Maybe he wants revenge?

I really won’t know till I’m able to interrogate this prick, but, as luck would have it, my lie detector isn’t with me right now, I’d left it at home like an idiot last night when I went out. I call it the Truth Finder, and it comes with eight, .50 caliber bullets that fit snuggly inside a specially made revolver I’d created several years back. Staring down its barrel makes everyone reveal their inner most secrets, and I so desperately want this buffoon to make its acquaintance.

His hand lingers far too long on my face and it’s starting to creep me out. I can tell he’s well-manicured and probably hadn’t done a hard day’s work in many years. Then he finally stops and runs them through my long darkened hair, which apparently he’d taken extra special care not to mess up the night before. I can feel each hair sitting perfectly on top of my head. It doesn’t feel as if a single one of them is out of place. My new choice of hair grease must’ve paid off, it’s holding firm.

Now, this molester’s dainty mitt is messing it up.

I’m peeved he’s ruining my perfectly styled locks, but I know it’ll all be over soon enough. You see, I’d caught the scent I’d been waiting for a few seconds ago. My back up had arrived and now it’s only a matter of time before I’m back at my apartment, not sleeping in my comfortable bed.

“But first,” the jack hole says after a long intimate pause, “skinning an entire human body isn’t easy, and this one has left me a little pekish.” He gives me a light slap on the face like I’m his bitch, and then checks his knots to make sure they’re holding. “Now,” he continues, “there’s a nice breakfast I’ve made and I’d love to enjoy it before I get started on you.”

The next couple paragraphs are a little off topic, but I think it’ll give you a little insight into my mindset and the reasoning behind most of my actions. There’s really no good way to ease you into my life, so I’ll just toss you in the water and hope you can swim.

By the way, there are no life preservers.

I’ve been told by my therapist that I’m severely depressed, borderline suicidal even. She told me I need to be medicated and/or hospitalized before I end up hurting myself or someone I love. I’m not in love with anyone so I figure, who cares if I live or not? But every visit, she pressures me to open up, relentlessly it seems. I always reply with the same phrase. I tell her, well, what do you expect from a guy who found his mom and brother stabbed to death by his own father? It shuts her up for a little while, but she’s persistent as hell. Fuckin’ quacks don’t know shit. I’m not depressed, I just don’t think this world is as beautiful a place as everyone makes it seem.

No reason to save it.

Most hippies swear by its beauty and claim it’s the best reason to live. Apparently they haven’t walked the streets at night. If they did, they’d probably not say such things because they’d be dead. Darkness brings out the evils of this world. You can’t look into the eyes of a Walker and tell yourself that everything is all fine and dandy as long as you’re looking at the bright side. Mother fuckers would eat you while the thought was running through your head, contradicting your thoughts right between its drooling, gnashing teeth.

Since the rift, we’ve all been on a downward spiral and it’s only a matter of time before we destroy ourselves, or something powerful enough crawls through that rift to do it for us. Chew on all that for a minute and let it sink in. Actually, think ticking time bomb, because that’s what the rift truly is.

Alright, back to my typical Saturday morning.

Damn this blind fold. I need to see this room. I need to know where I am. Then the rope around my wrists finally breaks through my skin.

Fuckin’ twine.

“If you’re going to kill me asshole, get to it already.” I try to antagonize the freak like I’d done so many others before him. Usually it would either piss them off enough that they’d say something I could use to my advantage, or it’d push them into making a rash move that would usually give me the upper hand. I hear him chewing on my words like gristle, but before he can reply, I continue. “If you don’t do it now, it’ll be you under the blade."

I give him the opportunity to call my bluff. I mean shit, I’m sitting here wrapped up like a Christmas present. He’s taking this opportunity for granted. There are a lot of creatures from the rift that would love to have an Inquisitor served up on a platter like this, so what’s this guy’s problem? Besides, what if this guy did kill me? It’s not like I’d be missed. I’m so tired of this community-service job anyway; it’d be awesome to finally retire, even if retirement meant sharing a tight wooden box with a family of worms.

Fuckin’ promises. Fuckin’ morals. It wasn’t originally my choice to do this work, I just happen to be cursed with a special skill-set, one that seems to be in dire demand these days. As you’ve probably deduced by this point, I was born with certain senses that can detect the things from the rift, even if they’re invisible, making it easy for me to hunt them down. Then with my military background, I have plenty enough training to send these creatures to the grave.

There are very few people like me that can do the things I can, but even fewer with the courage to take up this trade. Because of this, the Dart’s were created to ease the load. They’re semi intelligent droid’s that serve as an anti-Void Walker taskforce for the government.

They were created by an ominous military weapons designer called Data, which I’m pretty sure are the same dumb bastards responsible for the warp-drive that was tested without authorization, the same warp-drive that’s responsible for tearing a hole in the fabric of space and time, allowing those beasties to come here from somewhere else.

Other dimensions are what the rumors tell, but I’m no physicist and can’t really confirm that theory or not, it’s just the only credible one we Inquisitors go by.

The Dart’s are well known for going rogue and killing humans, but Data keeps pumping them out. You see, more Walkers die than civilians, and to the government, the collateral damage is more than acceptable. They let Data continue with their production, placing the termination of these rogues on the backs of the Inquisitors, as if we don’t already have enough to worry about with the monsters spewing in from the void.

We’re shunned in most communities as freaks and murders for hire, each one of us violent, bloodthirsty warlocks, teetering on the edge of madness. You’ve probably made fun of us or discriminated against one of us before, but you probably won’t admit it for fear of having your face peeled off and your facial orifices violated sexually, as the myths go.

For one, we hate being called warlocks; we’re just extremely misunderstood is all. And I don’t think our gifts can be considered magic as much as everyone would hope; maybe psychic if you want to push the subject, definitely not magic.

On top of being outcasts in almost every part of the world, we also have the shortest life expectancy than any other profession. A good, well-seasoned, well equipped Inquisitors average time in service is only about four years. I’ve been forced to do it for nine so far.

I’m sorry, but you’re probably wondering why I said forced instead of volunteered. First off, I have bad luck. Second off, I just so happened to be present during a series of unfortunate happenstances, one of which ending with a dead man’s blood on my hands. Nine years ago, I’d found myself stumbling out of a hole in the wall bar over in Dog Town, and just so happened to witness a guy being beaten to death by another man with a crow bar. I admit I was a little tipsy, but drunk or not, I didn’t like them odds. I ended up sticking a screw driver in the perpetrators neck, and while he was laying there bleeding out, I went to check on the victim. It only took a glance for me to see that he’d already succumbed to his wounds. Poor guy.

Then to add salt to the wound, law as it is has never really been on my side. Not only have they changed significantly over the years, but I was also my father’s son, and Henry’s shadow is as dark as it is wide. My life has been forever skewed in the eyes of the courts because of him. They see me as his apprentice; a killer in the making.

So, as you can realize, it didn’t take long for me to find myself standing in front of the infamous Judge Watts, awaiting his verdict. Luckily, on the night that shit went down, I was able to bribe the first officer on the scene to fudge his report a little. Thankfully, it was just enough to entice Judge Watts into giving me a lighter sentence, a sentence which I’m still paying for in both money, and in service.

That officer is Lieutenant Jason Abilene, the same guy my capture was talking about a few minutes ago. Most of the money I make as an Inquisitor is what’s keeping him from spilling the beans. He’d told Judge Watts that the guy I’d stabbed had come after me when I tried to render aid to the victim, and that I was just defending myself. It worked for the most part and kept me from receiving the death penalty. But, I was drunk at the time and that particular Judge had seen me more than a few times. That was his moment of victory, to sentence me once and for all. I’d struck out for the last time and good ol’ Judge Watts was there waiting, waiting to shove that gavel as far up my urethra as he could get it.

He instead gave me the option of life without the possibility of parole on the prison planet of Alpha Tortega, which is where my father is being kept. Or, I could live out the rest of my life as an Inquisitor, thanks to my good buddy Jason telling him about my gifts. I do say good buddy with the utmost sarcasm. I still owe the prick close to ninety thousand, and with my measly pay, I’ll be lucky if I can pay him back in full within the next fifty years or so. I should have never told him about my gifts, but then I usually tell my whole life story when I’m drunk. Never thought booze would be my Achilles heel.

Now I sit here at the mercy of this madman, blind folded and awaiting his knife, yet still I protect the man who has my nuts in a vice. Don’t ask me why, I guess I’m just a sucker for a good joke.

Luckily, this madman chose not to kill me presently and just chuckled at my predicament. Then I hear his footsteps leave the room and head down the hall to, I’m guessing the kitchen.

Thank god that shmuck is finally gone.

“Get me out of here, Pascal.”

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